Six Sentence Stories: a viral poem

Britains toys. 1983. UK.

I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and the cue word this week is Routine.


A viral poem:

The rime of the ancient healthcarer

 

07h: Colleagues arrive, smiles behind masks, Wuhan shakes all around, wash hands, clean-crisp uniforms, temperatures taken.

09h: Patients washed and fed, some ache, some throb, some sneeze, some cough, mask on, wash hands, gloves on, temperatures taken.

14h: Sanitize, sterilize, realize some don’t like their own company in isolation, oxygen, pills, hand gels and meals on wheels, change mask, wash hands, touch face – blast it, wash hands again.

16h: Mask on, mask off, wash hands, mask on, disinfect, tick boxes checked, temperatures taken.

20h: Wash hands, change clothes, mask off, go home, wash hands, change clothes, watch news with family, prepare sandwiches for tomorrow.

00h: A routine sleep brings bad scenes lathered in dystopian creams, because there’s not enough water to keep us clean in viral dreams it seems we all must share, day after day, day after day, they dropped down one by one; virus, virus, everywhere, and all the crowds were gone.


After The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

#Coronavirus #WashHands

666 screwed…

It seems ominous this post I’m writing to mark Britain’s official exit from the European Union today is post N°666.

Get thee behind me, Satan. And all that.

Iron Maiden. The Number of the Beast. 1982. EMI / Harvest. Art: Derek Riggs.

Not ominous really, perhaps just apt. If I were a blog newbie, then post N°13 would do just as well.

Anyway, sorry for the downbeat tone, I’m just mightily sad that today marks the date I, and many like me, will no longer be treated in law as European. To this I say… go fuck yourself. And please give me my European citizenship and freedoms back. To my Euro and Brit friends in the UK who never asked for any of this, I hope life will be uncomplicated and kind. To my fellow Brits in Europe, I hope it goes smoothly… we are subject in many ways now to our host country regs. And to the Brits who voted Leave… enjoy your celebration, sure, but please don’t rub it in the faces of those whose lives, family, homes, and jobs are being affected.

And now, a Nutella poem

The Nutella Poem

(part III. Exit crisis)

Nutella, Nutella, O how do we send thee across the Channel?

Your nuts enrobed in palm oil, cocoa and tariffs, held up in traffic,

lorry park queues and bound by new rules…

We want our Nutella! shout the hungry masses at the borders.

Nutella! Nutella! Not commemorative tea towels and 50p coins,

Nor mugs with slogans and a chubby thumbs-up!

Nutella! Your nuts! We want your price cuts,

supermarket discounts and multi-buy dreams,

lathered in cocoa, palm oil, oh sugar, oh Nutella…

Oh where is Nigella?

Nigella, Nigella, a recipe we need, to feed us,

to please us, to ease us, tease us, to free us…

from empty cupboards and ration book hell.

Nigella, Nutella, palm oil, nuts, cocoa and sugar,

(love never ends) We’ll always be together, together in Nutella dreams.

Italy. Topolino. 1978.

#JeNeSuisPasUnVirus – be kind. It could be your nation.

#guyverhofstadt – keep up the fight for continued European rights of those citizens about to lose them.

Nutella Poem (part I)

Nutella Poem (part II)


Happy New Yeats! Party like it’s 1999, in 1962!

Prince Magazine Special. 1985. Australia.

Happy new year vintage mates! Sorry we’re late and sorry we got the wrong year, but Wooof and I just got back from time travelling in 1982 watching Prince recording 1999, then we got lost in 1962 and found a cool book of poetry from W.B. Yeats, and then we got tangled up in a vintage space war between aliens and robots disputing a 3 billion year old moon made of chedder cheese and denim!

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Homework assignment: building a better robot

We can do it!

Gerry Anderson Andromedan Warbot. 1979. UK.

Starlog Japan. 1981. Maximilian.

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